LAVENDER BLUE (historical romance) by Parris Afton Bonds Page A
Authors: Parris Afton Bonds
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makes.”
She expelled her last breath. It had been difficult to say what she had, but the worst was over now, for she had no doubt but that she could win at chess. She had played the game too often with Armand and Cristobal to lose.
The tallow candle on the far wall fluttered to life. In the flickering dim light Jeanette could make out now why the two men ’s voices were muffled. Bandannas shielded the lower half of their faces, so that only the shadowed portion between the sombrero’s brim and the bandanna was visible—mere slits that watched her. She thought they looked more like desperadoes than privateers.
Waiting for one of them to say so mething, she was half afraid the Frenchman would turn down her proposition— and half afraid he wouldn’t. She wished there were more light. Her bravery was wavering like the candle flame. At last the Frenchman murmured something, and the other’s chair scraped the floor as he rose to leave. Beneath the Frenchman’s unwavering surveillance, she shifted uneasily. It wasn’t fair that he could study her, while she could barely see him. He had even had the foresight to position her so that the candlelight was behind him.
It wasn ’t too late to change her mind. There were easier ways to help the Confederacy, to avenge her beloved. Plaiting palmetto hats and making canvas knapsacks. Did not Southern homes hum with the spinning wheel and clack with the loom? She could still sell her cotton in return for the necessities required to keep Columbia operating.
Abruptly, she rose to go, and a swarthy hand shot out to capture her forearm. With gentle pressure the Frenchman levered her back down into the chair. “ Asseyez-vous .
Si t down. He had made that plain enough.
“ You really are despicable,” she said with a charming smile, careful to keep to English.
No response.
“You two-headed jackass,” she said sweetly, enjoying the moment. “Men like you are no better than worms.”
The door opened and the Mexican entered, this time without the bandanna about his face. The candlelight behind him accented his wiry, reed-thin figure. He carried an onyx chess set, and when he set it on the small round table between her and his captain, even with his sombrero shadowing his face, she could identify the Mexican as a mestizo by the obvious Indian features.
“ Buena suerte , ” he murmured before he left the room. Jeanette wondered if the wish of good luck was meant for her or the Frenchman. The closing of the door seemed to be the sealing of her fate. Her glance, adjust to the lack of light, quickly swept the darkened room—not as well furnished as Rubia’s. Small, musty. A white iron bed with, incongruously, a tin retablo of the Virgin Mary over it. A bureau of dark wood that sloped to one side. The chipped pitcher and washbasin sat precariously on it. No window. No escape.
Ba ck to the Frenchman. His eyes, dark and luminous, watched her intensely. His large, brown fingers began to set the black and white pieces in their positions. She took a deep breath and removed the shawl from her head. There was no backing out now. She started pulling the eyelet lace gloves from her fingers.
“ Vous avez le blanc , ” he told her.
He was giving her white, the advantage of the first move. “ How chivalrous of you,” she cooed, still in English. Immediately she moved out her bishop’s pawn. With luck she could get the match over quickly—with the fool’s checkmate that utilized only three moves.
Apparently the Frenchman was no tyro at the more intricate plays, for he responded by moving his black knight, which demolished her original plan of early attack , easy conquest. She sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long and difficult game. At one point the Mexican entered and set two glasses—hers was cracked—of harmless-looking amber liquid before them. “Mescal,” he said before closing the door behind him. She left the glass untouched. She was not so foolish that she would
She expelled her last breath. It had been difficult to say what she had, but the worst was over now, for she had no doubt but that she could win at chess. She had played the game too often with Armand and Cristobal to lose.
The tallow candle on the far wall fluttered to life. In the flickering dim light Jeanette could make out now why the two men ’s voices were muffled. Bandannas shielded the lower half of their faces, so that only the shadowed portion between the sombrero’s brim and the bandanna was visible—mere slits that watched her. She thought they looked more like desperadoes than privateers.
Waiting for one of them to say so mething, she was half afraid the Frenchman would turn down her proposition— and half afraid he wouldn’t. She wished there were more light. Her bravery was wavering like the candle flame. At last the Frenchman murmured something, and the other’s chair scraped the floor as he rose to leave. Beneath the Frenchman’s unwavering surveillance, she shifted uneasily. It wasn’t fair that he could study her, while she could barely see him. He had even had the foresight to position her so that the candlelight was behind him.
It wasn ’t too late to change her mind. There were easier ways to help the Confederacy, to avenge her beloved. Plaiting palmetto hats and making canvas knapsacks. Did not Southern homes hum with the spinning wheel and clack with the loom? She could still sell her cotton in return for the necessities required to keep Columbia operating.
Abruptly, she rose to go, and a swarthy hand shot out to capture her forearm. With gentle pressure the Frenchman levered her back down into the chair. “ Asseyez-vous .
Si t down. He had made that plain enough.
“ You really are despicable,” she said with a charming smile, careful to keep to English.
No response.
“You two-headed jackass,” she said sweetly, enjoying the moment. “Men like you are no better than worms.”
The door opened and the Mexican entered, this time without the bandanna about his face. The candlelight behind him accented his wiry, reed-thin figure. He carried an onyx chess set, and when he set it on the small round table between her and his captain, even with his sombrero shadowing his face, she could identify the Mexican as a mestizo by the obvious Indian features.
“ Buena suerte , ” he murmured before he left the room. Jeanette wondered if the wish of good luck was meant for her or the Frenchman. The closing of the door seemed to be the sealing of her fate. Her glance, adjust to the lack of light, quickly swept the darkened room—not as well furnished as Rubia’s. Small, musty. A white iron bed with, incongruously, a tin retablo of the Virgin Mary over it. A bureau of dark wood that sloped to one side. The chipped pitcher and washbasin sat precariously on it. No window. No escape.
Ba ck to the Frenchman. His eyes, dark and luminous, watched her intensely. His large, brown fingers began to set the black and white pieces in their positions. She took a deep breath and removed the shawl from her head. There was no backing out now. She started pulling the eyelet lace gloves from her fingers.
“ Vous avez le blanc , ” he told her.
He was giving her white, the advantage of the first move. “ How chivalrous of you,” she cooed, still in English. Immediately she moved out her bishop’s pawn. With luck she could get the match over quickly—with the fool’s checkmate that utilized only three moves.
Apparently the Frenchman was no tyro at the more intricate plays, for he responded by moving his black knight, which demolished her original plan of early attack , easy conquest. She sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long and difficult game. At one point the Mexican entered and set two glasses—hers was cracked—of harmless-looking amber liquid before them. “Mescal,” he said before closing the door behind him. She left the glass untouched. She was not so foolish that she would
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